The road in the poem was the space between those worlds, a crack in her consciousness that was black and bleak and far more dangerous than the land around and beyond.
Caleb had lived trapped between two worlds, too. He’d read others of Cecily’s poems now, she’d shared several with him, but that first would always mean everything, even though they couldn’t share it. Because he’d seen into her through that poem. He’d reached out and caught her.
And she’d caught him.
For links to information about the Osage tribe and other resources, go to the Author’s Notes at the beginning of this book.
And keep flipping pages for a special bonus after my author info! A preview to Alliance, Book One of The Red Star Series, coming soon from Catherine Johnson. Set in the present, it features Irina Volkov and her grown, and deliciously hot, grandson Nikolai.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Fanetti is a Midwestern native transplanted to Northern California, where she lives with her husband, youngest son, and assorted cats.
She is a proud member of the Freak Circle Press.
Susan’s blog: www.susanfanetti.com
Susan’s Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/authorsusanfanetti
‘Susan’s FANetties’ reader group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/871235502925756/
Freak Circle Press Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/freakcirclepress
‘The FCP Clubhouse’ reader group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/810728735692965 /
Twitter: @sfanetti
Brazen Bulls Pinterest board: https://www.pinterest.com/laughingwarrior/the-brazen-bulls-mc/
BONUS PREVIEW!
ALLIANCE, The Red Star Series, Book One
By Catherine Johnson
CHAPTER ONE
The coffee was not quite cool enough to drink, so she pursed her lips and blew across its onyx surface. The first sip was almost too bitter, but it was chased by the aftertaste of the chocolate powder mixed into the grounds. By the third sip, the caffeine had hit her veins and she finally felt the groggy mist of sleep fall away. Unfortunately, once she was awake, she was aware. The oddly false lemon scent of Benito's mug of herbal tea hit her nostrils. She lifted her mug, not to drink, but to inhale. She wanted to be fully present in only the coffee for a little while longer.
The exterior wall of the kitchen was entirely glass - all the better to see the extensive, highly manicured gardens - but the bright morning sunshine reflecting off the pristine white gloss cabinets was almost migraine inducing. The house had been professionally decorated. Alessia's taste ran to homey and comfortable. Benito's prefered dark and linear designs. The interior designer had reached a compromise that satisfied neither of them, but which was pale and beige enough to cause no offense. She squinted against the glare and turned her head from the light.
Matylda, their live-in maid and cook, was loading the dishwasher so quietly and unobtrusively that sometimes Alessia almost forgot she was there at all. There was no doubt that having staff enabled her to live a luxurious lifestyle of ease and leisure, but it was not the existence she had once envisaged for herself. As a girl, she had idolized her Nonna and the home that was always full of the aromas of fresh-baked treats and coffee, of the sounds of chatter and laughter and fun and love. Her current palace of ecru silence was almost the polar opposite of her old daydreams, but it seemed churlish to reject it. Not that she had a choice. The children of dynasties never got to choose their own destinies. She had been given her part to play; rejecting it was out of the question. Her ambition, now, was to make a success of it.
Benito was fussing with his egg white omelet. She knew he detested the bland food, but he was committed to it as part of his new fitness kick. Eventually, he gave up, leaving more than half of it on his plate. She had a feeling he would be stopping at Carlito's bakery on his way into the city, and yet he continued to profess his amazement that his dedication to physical perfection was not paying off. He rose, fastening the buttons on his navy silk suit as he did so. She was conscious that he was dressed and groomed for the day and that she was sitting there in her expensive gown and wrap set. The elegant blush satin and lace were at odds with her messy ponytail. She saw him start to make a comment, and she watched as his expression revealed he'd thought better of it.
“I’ll see you later, cara.” He bent to place a polite kiss on her cheek and smoothed his neatly gelled hair as he straightened as if the very act of moving might have mussed the style.
His freshly applied aftershave was pungent enough to make her gag. She raised her coffee again to chase away the stink and did not return his gesture of affection. “Will you be back for dinner?”
“Most likely. Will you?”
“Yes. I’ve no intention of staying longer than I have to.”
Benito checked his watch. “You'll need to start gettin’ ready soon.”
“I know.”
The temperature in the room dropped to match the arctic furniture and Matylda had suddenly made herself scarce, but Alessia was not worried. Benito did not have time to indulge in one of their strained, painfully polite debates. Neither did she if the truth were told, but she was less inclined to be on time for her appointment.
She would have to have a shower soon. Her agenda for the day had been swallowed by a charity gala, one of the social functions that she found utterly tedious, but which were necessary to maintain the legitimate image of her family. On paper, her family was Benito's family; she was a Dioli by marriage. In her heart and soul, she would always be a Tosetti, she would always be her grandfather's 'Principessa'. The façade she helped to create and uphold, that of moneyed benevolence, of businessmen giving back to their community, was a sham. Her families were Mafia; Italian clans that could trace their roots back to the old country and then some for several generations.
Her mother, Giosetta, an innocent bride imported from Sicily for Santo Tosetti's oldest son, had often struggled with being married to Alessia's father. She had been under his control and at his mercy and had hated every moment of being beholden to someone else. She, too, had endured a life of public principles, which were often polar opposites to her life in her own home and the activities of her husband and father-in-law. Sometimes, Alessia wondered if absolute misery hadn’t been the seed of the cancer that had finally freed her. As a child, Alessia had often sought solace from the unhappiness of her family home in the house of her grandparents and she had moved there following the death of her father. After a while, it was almost as though there was not a whole generation between them.
“I gotta leave now. Don Tosetti does not tolerate late arrivals.” That was how her husband referred to her grandfather, never by his given name, Santo, or even as 'your papa', he always used the formal title, as if they were related only by a business arrangement. In a way, Alessia supposed it was true enough.
Her husband had an appointment with her grandfather. Today he would attend one of the regular meetings of the Council, a coalition of many of the most powerful heads of New York's underworld. Her grandfather had founded a criminal United Nations across the five boroughs of the city; it wasn't perfect, but it had heralded decades of peace and prosperity for those that were a part of it.
To his credit, Benito waited only until he had achieved the safety of the escape of the doorway before he made his last remark, rather than texting her from the sanctuary of the car. “Don’t make yourself late, it ain’t a good look for us.”
Alessia considered hurling her mug at him, but it still contained precious caffeine. Besides, he was not wrong. She hated being tardy, she only disliked the way he phrased the reminder as an instruction as if he somehow had superiority over her. Instead of answering him, she sipped at her coffee and ignored him, giving her attention over to an errant squirrel hopping across the neatly clipped grass of their lawn.
Dismissed by her silence, Benito left. When she heard the front door to their home shut, Alessia let out a relieved breath that she only belatedly
realized she had been holding.
~o0o~
The gala had been every bit as numbing, as sycophantic, and as utterly boring as Alessia had feared it would be, but thankfully it was now drawing to a close. Lunch had been served and eaten, although, the series of dishes had sported morsels so small that she would have been reluctant to call them hors-d'oeuvres. The active auction had recently finished and now it was time to peruse the items on offer in the silent auction… and to mingle. Alessia hated to mingle. She hated trivial conversation. She hated the vapid, pampered housewives that she was forced to associate with. One of the prima donnas had even brought the camera crew for their reality television show. Already there had been a carefully staged argument over a prize, a weekend in the Hamptons that no one really wanted because Florida was where it was at this year.
Alessia had made certain to stay away from the searching scope of the lens. The presence of the camera had certainly divided the crowd. The majority had enjoyed the attention, had played up every aspect of their personalities. The chatter had been louder and the gossip less secretive and more scandalous than Alessia could remember having heard before. Hands had waved across the room as if a fleet of cabs might drive through, just to show off jeweled bracelets and rings. But amongst the publicity seeking peacocks, there were islands of stoic calm, the society matriarchs that had seen it all before, the old money, those - like Alessia - who were there to be seen, but who knew the value of their presence would not be counted in tabloid column inches.
It was easy to spot the women who wished to avoid being made a spectacle. Some of the old grande dames sat together, as they must have done since before their debutant balls. Others who had achieved that respected elegance by more nefarious means rarely mixed. They were visible precisely because of their lack of movement. They did not toss their hair and throw back their heads while laughing too loudly. They did not gesticulate as if auditioning for a home shopping channel. They were occupied only with their purpose for being there, not the actual work of the charity auction, but the serious business of sipping wine and being seen to be doing the right thing by the right people. As she scanned the room - with half her mind on how she could make an early exit without being rude - Alessia inadvertently caught the eyes of Irina Volkov.
If the men in her life were part of their own entente, their own axis of authority, so, too, were their women. The female group was smaller, and less closely knit. The younger ones were typically those tossing blonde extensions with fake nails while exhibiting their recent purchases from Tiffany and Chopard, and they were not included. Those that could be included in the elusive group did not organize giddy lunches or wine-soaked dinners; they rarely spoke to each other. Alessia was likely the youngest of the ones that could be named because Benito was young for a Don, but there was an implicit understanding in their demeanor and attitude that they were the same, that they were of the same faction, that they would not cause trouble between themselves. Alessia had never tested her theory, but she suspected that even without the instruction of their menfolk - these women would rally to each other's aid if required. She didn't like to dwell on thoughts of the alternative.
Without intending too, Alessia caught Irina's eye again. The woman had been scanning the crowd but did a barely noticeable double take as her gaze had roamed over Alessia. The matriarch of a Russian family, not so very dissimilar to her own Italian clan, was seated across the room. Alessia knew that Irina's son, Nikolai, sat on the Council with Benito. She had heard that they were of a similar age, but she had only seen him briefly at the evening events where male participation was almost mandatory. The afternoons were understood to be the time for the women and it was rare to see a strictly heterosexual man in the room, but the evening balls required the presence of a partner or chaperone. Their men often met to speak of business at such events, while the women maintained their solitary attitude of disinterested calm.
They were not enemies, but the diminutive woman across the room had a gaze so cold that a chill trembled down Alessia's spine. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh, despite the jacket of her chic Stella McCartney two-piece. Her discomfort might have been the result of the air-conditioning, although the gilded opulence of the grand ballroom of the Plaza could hardly be considered cool. More likely it was the result of unintentionally catching the attention of the most dangerous woman in the United States of America, maybe the world.
While Alessia was a member of a generations-old clan of criminals, she had never - strictly speaking - broken the law in her own right. She had benefitted from the proceeds of crime, but she had never shot a gun at an enemy, she had never stolen, she had never presented blackmail material to a politician. Irina Volkov had done all that and more, much more. Alessia knew only the bones of Irina's history; she knew that she had arrived in the States in the great wave of immigration from the former Soviet Union in the Nineties. She knew that she’d had children with spouses and grandchildren that amounted to many mouths to feed. She knew that Irina was descended from a long lineage of proud Mafiya, just as she was. She knew that Irina had had to fight tooth and nail to build respect and fear and power in this new country when it had been her own right of birth back in Russia. As for the details of how she had succeeded, those Alessia did not want to know. She only knew now that Irina had given over the reins to Nikolai a decade ago, that she had lost several of her children, and that now her brood of grandchildren was responsible for running the empire that she had built single-handedly. Now, except for the icy eyes that spoke volumes of hardships known and crimes committed, she was the perfect image of a wealthy and perhaps kindly grandmother.
The room came to life around her with jarring joviality; it was time for the next act of the farce. A jazz quartet began to play a lively accompaniment, overwhelming the shuffling of chair legs and the rat-a-tat of spike heels. The chatter rose in volume as the crème of society pretended to be interested in more than themselves. The auction was a nominally pointless affair, anyone there could have bought the items on offer for at least twice the market-value without blinking. The event was nothing but a sham of Public Relations. Alessia herself had not needed to raise her hand to bid on the luxury yacht or the Impressionist painting, Benito had already made a generous donation in the name of the company that disguised his illegal activities. She was not required to participate in the vulgar display of wealth, only to show her face.
Bored with the entire debacle, Alessia furnished herself with a fresh glass of crisp chardonnay and retreated to the vast bank of windows that bordered one side of the room. There were pillars and drapes and all sorts of props by which she could disguise her desire to be anywhere else. In reality, she was avoiding everyone, but if anyone asked she could say that she was admiring the view.
“Izvinite.”
The word, foreign and unknown and so obviously directed at her, startled Alessia. She almost stumbled back when she turned to the voice and found Irina standing in front of her. Instead, she hid her shock by taking a nonchalant sip of wine.
“Sorry?” She swallowed and tried not to choke on the bite of the alcohol.
“That is to say, excuse me.”
Irina’s accent was thick as treacle. Despite having been in the States for decades, her homeland clung to her like an overpowering perfume. You could brush past Irina Volkov in the street and just know that she was Russian. Benito had many dealings with many important and influential people, on both sides of the law, but he did not favor the Eastern Europeans. He referred to the Volkovs and Medvedevs - the only Soviet families on the council – as cani Russi’, even though the Medvedevs were Ukrainian.
In truth, she admired Irina, as much as she feared and respected her. In Alessia's world women had no place at all, other than mother or ornament; but in Irina’s world women could carve their place alongside men, they had the chance to earn status by their own actions, rather than by association with a male. If the street was to be believed, Irina was retired. Alessia did not belie
ve such trivialities. Irina had taken a step back, she had not been neutered. She had been a fearsome leader of the Volkov Bratva, uncompromising and brutal, she had commanded armies. Alessia did not doubt, just because Irina chose now to play the society grande dame, that anything had fundamentally changed about the woman.
“Ah. Scusate. Hello.” Alessia tried not to stutter, thrown by her reaction to a foreign language, even though she spoke Italian as often as she spoke English.
“Here.” Irina was holding two crystal tumblers, one contained clear liquid, the other amber. She handed the glass half full of amber liquid to Alessia. “These sharada call for something stronger than wine.”
Alessia took a healthy swig of the chardonnay, almost emptying the glass, before handing it off to a passing waiter. Irina was right, liquor would be better, but waste not, want not. She raised the squat glass, expecting the sour musk of whiskey, and found instead the fragrant almond aroma of Amaretto. Alessia glanced at Irina as she sipped the warm liqueur. There were few spirits that she would drink neat; Amaretto numbered in that small group. She was suspicious because she had never bothered to request anything that wasn't offered at these events. That Irina knew what she liked to drink, was either lucky assumption or shrewd research.
Stand (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 7) Page 37
